Chance Meeting
by lark lavroc
Summary: 25 different ways Seto and Yami could have met. 25 new beginnings, new universes. For Dragon's challenge. [SetoYami]
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _I don't own Yugioh or any of its characters; this is mainly for fun, and I don't gain any profit.  
_  
Author's Notes:_ For Dragon's challenge: 25 different 'chance meetings' of Kaiba and Yami, each involving a title/phrase from a list of 50.

Here's the first five drabbles/ficlets.

Many thanks to Yuugi-chan for beta-ing.  
_  
Completed: 14.02.2006_

* * *

_1. Hurts so good_  
_  
_The music was loud, throbbing; it pounded through Seto's head like an insistent drum, slithering over his body like a hundred-thousand caresses. The beat vibrated, tingled, turning into a shiver down his spine, and Seto wanted nothing more than to _feel_.

Pleasure. 

Pain.

He didn't care as long as he could feel, as long as he wasn't numb and cold anymore. After all, he did have a high pain threshold.

A hand ran down his chest and he looked into the ruby-red eyes of his personal demon.

"Pleasure or pain?" it murmured.

Seto leaned forward and whispered into its ear, "Pain."

* * *

_2. Midnight Voices_

Silence. Quiet. What Seto had wanted, and what apparently he wasn't going to get.

He gritted his teeth and strived for patience. It was possibly the most difficult thing he'd done all day—and that was saying a lot since he'd spent the day going through project updates—but now, the laughing voices wouldn't subside and Seto just wanted some peace and quiet so he could finish off his thesis.

Was that too much to ask for?

Low laughter echoed, answering his question indirectly, and Seto struggled not to slam the lid of his laptop down, stomp his way to the source of the irritating noise, and give them a piece of his mind.

"You really think..."

"Of course, it's true..."

"I don't know, he doesn't seem..."

"Friendly? That's how he always is, even when...happy..."

"what...can't believe you..."

"...oh, come on..."

"I don't...what if he says..."

"Then you gave it a go...you don't know until..."

"Well..."

"Dare you."

To Seto's irritation, the voices grew slightly louder. From low murmurs to this—Seto just couldn't take it anymore. He got up and stormed towards where the chattering was the loudest, his mind preparing a sharp and sarcastic rant that would hopefully incinerate the damn nuisances.

"Would you be _quiet_?" he asked angrily, just as he turned towards the study table positioned right in the centre.

And found himself facing one of the strangest (and most exotic looking) pair of twins he'd ever come across.

"Oh, were we disturbing you?" the crimson-eyed twin asked.

"Sorry," the violent-eyed twin added.

Seto, to his fury and embarrassment, didn't know what to say. His rant seemed immature in comparison to the way the twins were dealing with the situation, and his pride wouldn't allow himself to appear less than professional in front of his peers.

"We didn't mean to," the crimson-eyed twin continued. "We just got carried away."

The violent-eyed twin nodded, then unsubtly elbowed his brother.

"Oh, and do you want to go out sometime?" the crimson-eyed twin said as he elbowed his brother back.

Seto, once again, was struck speechless.

"I'll take it as a yes," the crimson-eyed twin said, amused. "By the way, I'm Yami."

* * *

_3. Breaking and Entering  
_  
The thrill, the rush, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins was much more wild and exhilarating than any drug, any drink. It entwined itself with the beat of his heart, thudding in tune to music only Yami could hear. The threat of exposure, of capture, only heightened Yami's exhilaration.

Yami was well and truly addicted.

He took his manufactured access card, swiped it on the reader, and watched with satisfaction and a rush of triumph as the small screen blinked green. Quickly pocketing the card, he walked through the automatic sliding doors; he stopped, just short of the thin red laser beams zig-zagging in a rectangular shape and enclosing a small, steel stand. The glass twinkled seductively across the room at Yami, and he could feel his heart rate accelerate, could hear the roar of victory, just _this _close.

One would expect a beautiful jewel to lie in such tight security. One would expect something ancient and expensive, but rich in beauty and history. And one should have expected Yami to choose a beauty of a different kind and worth just as much as any ancient trinket.

Inside the glass, a tiny microprocessor lay; it was less than the width of a thumb and thinner than a coin, but it shone with the brilliance of a million interconnections, of an awe-inspiring technology that the world has never seen. It was worth billions, and he wanted it.

Just then, the alarm sounded and one part of the wall opened. A figure strode in confidently, ice-cool blue eyes staring unwaveringly at him.

Yami stared back and slowly tilted his head; his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into an admiring smirk. Well, if it wasn't Seto Kaiba, creator of said microprocessor and CEO of KaibaCorp, here to personally escort Yami to jail.

_How appropriate_, Yami thought, but unfortunately for Kaiba, Yami had no plans on being caged.

"Going to call the police now?" Yami asked, amused, as he crossed his arms. "Or are you going to take me all by yourself?"

It was borderline mocking, but Yami liked the flicker of anger, of controlled rage that flashed across Kaiba's face.

"Oh, I can take you just fine," Kaiba said, voice low, bemused, and with more than a tinge of interest.

Yami blinked, his smirk widening as he took a better look at the one and only Seto Kaiba. _Well, well, well_, Yami thought.

* * *

_4. Stranger in Town_

The breeze fluttered along his skin like butterfly wings, freeing and soft, easing some of Seto's tension. The park in the late evening was dark and beautiful. It relaxed Seto, soothed his nerves and cleared his mind; it reminded him of old childhood wishes, when he had once stood with Mokuba and promised they would never be separated.

He hadn't been able to keep his promise. In the end, he could only watch as they were torn into two different directions, taken away from each other by brute force.

Seto had searched for him when he finally had the resources; he'd looked everywhere, every record, every home, every potential foster parent, until finally—finally he had an address. A name.

The thin sheet of lined paper crinkled in his pocket with every step he took, but he didn't care. He had already memorised the words, he didn't need the paper anymore, but he couldn't quite make himself throw it away either.

It was getting late; maybe too late for Seto to visit. Or maybe he was being foolish, letting his fear control his action, letting Mokuba slip by once again because he was too afraid of rejection. Of not being able to keep his promise.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, relishing the sharp crinkle when his fingers brushed against the folded edges, and released a deep breath.

"You shouldn't be standing in the middle of the road," a voice chided from behind him.

Seto turned around and said warily, "I didn't think anyone would still be here."

"I like coming here late," the stranger said, shrugging and smiling, his crimson eyes warm. "Makes you remember things..."

"Yeah," Seto said softly, "the memories... I haven't been here for a while."

"How long?" 

"Years," Seto said, slightly wistful. He turned back to the stranger awkwardly. "I have something to do."

"Something...no, someone left behind?" The stranger looked kind, even understanding.

"Yes." Seto almost turned away; he didn't deserve understanding. He didn't even deserve the quiet kindness this stranger seemed so willing to impart—he didn't deserve anything.

"But you've come back." It was more of a statement, less of a question, and wrapped in gentle forgiveness.

Seto slowly nodded and then took a deep breath. "Thank you." He hesitated, then, "I'm Seto."

"I'm Yami." Warm, friendly, kind. Seto thought that even if he didn't deserve kindness, he would still hold it close to his heart.

* * *

_5. Dreamwalker  
_  
He dreamed of the sun, brilliant and golden, unmarred by white-grey clouds. He dreamed of a sky so blue, it looked like the never-ending sea. He dreamed of a youth, tanned and robust, with demon-red eyes and exotic, collar-length hair. He dreamed of warmth, of affection, and soft, dreamy kisses that made him sigh.

When consciousness intruded, he took that warmth, that affection, and locked it away. Dreams had no place in reality, especially not in his reality, and he took special care to forget.

The youth, whoever he was, needed to be forgotten and locked away.

Gozaburo had called for him.

And Seto went, leaving behind what he could never have.  
_  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer_: Same as previous. If I owned YuGiOh, I definitely wouldn't be writing fan fiction.

_Author's Notes_: The next five short stories. I was tempted to turn one of these ficlets into a WIP, but that will have to wait until I've finished the other ones first.

Thanks to Moe for the beta and thanks to everyone who has reviewed and given feedback—I wanted to reply back to everyone (and hopefully I've done so), but RL has been hectic lately, and I might not have time until semester ends.

_Completed:_ 7 May 2006

* * *

_6. Handle with care_

Seto lived in a cold, grey world.

He lived emotionlessly, carelessly, and without regard for anyone or anything, not even Mokuba, who had once been the only light in his life. That light had diminished as time went by, as more scars were etched along his skin, like an eternal chill that hovered around his body, his mind, depriving him of any haven; and Seto found himself in darkness, his only light eclipsed by heavy smog that shrouded his heart, leaving it withered and dying.

Seto lived in a cold, grey world of ice; untouched and hard, sharp and deadly. He drew blood wherever he went, with Mokuba always by his side, eyes wounded and mouth tight-lipped, full of determination and despair. Seto didn't care.

He was like a piece of automated machinery, following through the motions of life, but failing to understand and grasp _why_. He once knew why—he once felt love, pain, failure. Triumph. Sacrifice. He once…felt.

Curiosity. It crawled into his mind like a worm, wiggling and squirming into his neat and ordered thoughts. The puzzle remained a mystery from the first time Seto had set his eyes on it until now—when Seto was nearly finished completing it. The challenge had been a temptation, the curiosity irresistible. Seto had found himself distracted for the first time in years by something almost pleasant. Almost pleasurable. The puzzle was like a game; each piece was like a pawn, waiting for Seto to guide it to its rightful place.

Mokuba had started to look hopeful, but Seto just ignored him. He had one final piece to place and he was finished; game over. For a moment, he was almost regretful—but then he scoffed and shook it off.

He had a puzzle to finish and after that… after that, it didn't matter.

The piece slid between his fingers in welcome, slightly warm. Seto frowned for a second and held the piece up for a closer look; any warmth from his previous handling should have vanished by now. Unless…his eyes narrowed and he pondered on whether Mokuba disobeyed his orders—whether Mokuba needed to be punished.

Later, he thought, as he relaxed his grip and slid the final piece in. First, complete the puzzle, then punish Mokuba.

For a second, Seto felt a keen sense of satisfaction, of triumph—then, when it became clear no mystery was going to reveal itself, he became angry. Disappointed. But he quickly suppressed it and fed on the anger—because anger was better; anger was necessary. Anger sometimes melted the ice that surrounded his soul.

Something crackled; something—no—a spark shot out from the puzzle to his hands, weaving a strange pattern onto his palm, his arms, and travelling upwards to his mind. He envisioned glass shattering, an endless rain of sharp pieces pouring over sand; faces, old and young, decaying into skeletons—sunken, hollow, and brittle; and an old, ancient maze with groaning, moving stairs in every direction, where each door beckoned dangerously, old monsters just a hair's-breadth away.

Shuddering, Seto wrenched back; the puzzle fell onto the floor looking innocent and harmless. Seto stared at it with shock and fascination, with something akin to obsession; the puzzle was gleaming and Seto couldn't help but be entranced. He steadied his mind, calmly walling in his thoughts to that dark secret space; a place of solitude, where the physical plane didn't matter and Seto could stay there for as long as he wanted while his body bled.

He picked up the puzzle, thumbs gently tracking its outline, and waited.

He didn't have to wait for long. A slow tendril of electricity sparked out, reaching for him, grasping at him, until Seto could feel his heart thundering in response. He felt the tendrils trail up from his hands to his chest, and to his head—

_There was sand everywhere, biting and scratching at his skin. He was in darkness, surrounded by stone. No—stone tablets; monsters were engraved on them. And there was someone else there. Someone powerful—someone dark._

Then, he felt something foreign in his mind, running through his thoughts like a machete hacking away wild plant growth. His head hurt, but he struggled to maintain his control. He struggled to throw off the intruder.

It stopped. Suddenly, Seto could breathe again as his headache faded. The intruder remained though.

_Who are you?_

Seto narrowed his eyes. _Who _are _you?_

There was a pause as the intruder examined his surroundings, prodding at the walls Seto had put up. Seto immediately strengthened them and he felt a glimmer of annoyance and grudging respect in turn.

_I am darkness_. _I am...Yami._

* * *

_7. Night sins_

The carpet was lush and soft, a rich dark red that blended and contrasted nicely with the elegance of the room. Paintings, mostly abstract, hung on each wall, while shelves of trinkets and figurine art stood in patterns only deciphered by their owner. The lighting was dim, a yellow-orange glow that covered the expanse of the entire room, highlighting the play of shadows; the intimate setting in which one could take pleasure in.

Seto stood just inside the doorway, face tightly composed as lips thinned in distaste. If Pegasus thought offering the services of a 'highly skilled escort' was going to change his mind, then he was a fool and an idiot. Did he think that Seto could be bought off by pleasure and sex?

Well, apparently so if he thought asking him to a so-called false meeting would ease the way to a contract. Seto would have been more angry with being deceived if he hadn't half-expected Pegasus to do something like that. Any respect he might have harboured for the creator of his cherished game had been shattered when Pegasus had tried to kidnap Mokuba and use him as a bargaining tool. Now, he had nothing but contempt for Pegasus; what he thought were similarities between them were simply shallow facets of their personalities—nothing worthy of his respect or admiration.

He glanced around the room once again and made no attempt to hide his impatience.

"Sorry for the wait. I was was running late from my last appointment." The tone was smooth, bemused, and not very sincere. The crimson eyes that met his, however, were appraising; they swept down Seto's body like a caress, neither asking nor seeking permission—didn't need any.

"I'm not here for this," Seto said coldly, ignoring the penetrating gaze. 

"Then what are you here for? I'm sure a smart man like you would have figured out what Pegasus was trying to do..." Amusement lingered coyly, like the subtle jasmine scent Seto was only just aware of, becoming stronger with every step the crimson-eyed stranger took.

Seto's breath quickened, the sharp spike of desire, of pure lust, taking hold of him, and he fought to regain his composure. There was danger in this desire, in this _stranger_. Pegasus wouldn't have asked him to come otherwise—and the question remained: if he had known, then why had he _come_?

"You don't know anything," he snapped, his composure spiralling out of control; his certainties, his thoughts—they were unleashed from their tightly ordered reign, and now they were in chaos. His body and his mind fought with the confusion, fought to regain his equilibrium.

"Oh, but I do..." And _he_ was there, just barely inches apart; soft lips lingered on his neck, his chin, then, a whisper into his ear. "I'm Yami."

Deft hands and supple fingers trailed down until they reached his belt. That soft whisper continued. "You don't have to tell me your name. I know just who you are."

A lick. A kiss.

"And what you want."

* * *

_8. Night Flight_

Seto stared at his watch and then eyed at the blinking board in front. Right in the centre, just on the column where the status of his flight was meant to be lit in green, was the word DELAYED in large, red, and blinking characters. It stood out, of course, because it wanted to be as clear-cut as possible to the irate passengers; but Seto found it annoying just the same. As if the delay wasn't bad enough, Seto had to be reminded of it at every turn.

He supposed he couldn't blame the airport—the weather had been worsening since late evening, and the slight rainy mist then had turned into a full-blown storm now; large, rounded raindrops were splattering onto the windows in sync, leaving solid wet trails as it slid down. The hard thumps of rain hitting the roof might have been calming, under other circumstances, but it only served to irritate Seto further.

It hadn't been a good day. First, Seto had been late for his appointment with his advisor. His alarm had somehow malfunctioned during the night—he had yet to take it apart to see what had happened—and Seto had woken up half an hour late because for some annoying reason, his internal clock hadn't seen fit to wake him, as it usually did. Then, to make a disastrous start of the day even worse, one of the main roads to the campus had been closed off for maintenance, leaving Seto with no option but to take the longer route—one which half the city's population seem to be taking from the smothering traffic. When he had finally managed to arrive at the Information Communications and Technology building, he then realised he had _left part of his thesis at his apartment._ At that point, Seto had wanted nothing more than to throttle someone. Anyone. He hadn't cared. His day had started badly and went worse as the hours ticked by. The much needed meeting with his thesis advisor had been fruitless; they had both agreed to cut the meeting short and have Seto email a copy later in the evening. Then, as if he hadn't been irritated enough, he had two hours of lab work to complete. Usually, he found the practical side enjoyable. Usually, he found a sort of peace tinkering and testing his designs. But when he had entered the post-graduate lab, he had found a bunch of under-grads working in his station. Apparently, there had been a mix-up in the booking for the old electronics lab—which meant these particular set of students needed to work in another area... His.

Despite the trying circumstances and the occasionally urge to knock out several students, Seto had managed to finish off his control circuit in time. He had left immediately for his apartment and started packing. Mid-semester break was coming in three days; Seto had opted to take those three days off in order to spend more time at home to make up for the previous semester, when he had been too busy to fly back. Mokuba had not been pleased then, and Seto had spent several days being tormented by large, wounded dark eyes and a pouting mouth. In the end, he had agreed to make up for it during the next break.

Upon arrival, he had grabbed his ticket and waited for his luggage to be approved. Then, he had waited and waited and waited, until some questioning had led to being notified of a 'slight' delay from the airport receptionist. Now, he sank onto the hard plastic seats and rubbed his temples gingerly. Of course, his flight had to be delayed; he should have expected something like this, with the current trend of his bad luck.

"You wouldn't happen to be Seto, would you?"

Seto looked up and blinked at the visage of a dyed-spiky haired youth, around the same age as him. "Yes, I would," Seto said suspiciously.

"It's nothing bad... well, not the dying type of bad. It's more of the being double booked type of bad," the stranger said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. He obviously didn't like being the bearer of bad news, and Seto couldn't blame him. Well, he probably would have if he had been in a less numb state.

Seto sighed. "It figures."

"And there's no more seats left." The stranger winced as soon as he said it.

For a second, Seto could only stare blankly. Then, his hands clenched. "Fuck! Fucking bloody—damn it!"

"I'm sorry." And the stranger did look sincere, which made it easier for Seto to calm down.

"Not your fault," Seto muttered as he ran a hand over his face. And it wasn't. It was just another crappy thing in a long, crappy day, and Seto just wanted it to end.

"You know, I can take the next flight if you're in a hurry," the stranger said, shrugging. "I'm not in a rush."

Seto blinked. "I—thanks."

"No problem."

Seto found himself relaxing despite himself. "Thanks again, uh, I don't know your name."

"It's Yami," Yami said, smiling slightly. "And you're welcome."

* * *

_9. Knockin' on your door_

The mansion was huge and encompassing, but not intimidating. It held shades of warmth that had nothing to do with the reflection of the sun, and it was almost...friendly. Comfortable. It spoke of age and modern sophistication; it hinted at hidden pathways, secretive rooms, and Seto was intrigued. If he could just touch the walls, if he could just get one glimpse...he knew the mansion would speak to him. They always did. Images, emotions, sensations—Seto received them all; it didn't matter what shape or form each object held, as soon as Seto could touch, Seto could feel, see, sense.

It had been an annoyance at times and a wonder at others—what Seto most loved about his quirk was the way everything would come alive when he began piecing together his creations. They wanted to come together—they wanted to be complete, to be one whole entity instead of several bits of matter, but they didn't have the means. Seto saw all this and more; he knew how the pieces fit together, until one-by-one they became whole. And afterwards, staring into his prototypes, he felt their peace, their pleasure. He heard their whispers, their murmurs, their circuits whirling in thought. People might think machines had no soul; they might see them as an endless and continuous interconnection of wires, where current travelled and voltage varied, but he _saw _their heart. He could hear its beat, could sense the static pulses as they breathed.

He had thought it was normal for people to hear, feel, and sense what he had always heard, felt, and sensed when he was younger. Now, he knew better.

The Professor had said it was a gift—Seto could very well believe it if he wasn't a sceptic by heart. And if he hadn't read through all of the Professor's publications, which were numerous and very telling. The Professor might think it was a gift from Mother Nature, but Seto thought of it more pragmatically—a mutation was a mutation. It happened and it couldn't be undone, and therefore Seto would accept it as it were.

He supposed being here was part of that acceptance; the Professor had been very persuasive when he had told Seto about his school.

_A place for those gifted...much like yourself._

Seto had not been convinced, but when Professor Xavier mentioned Cerebral and the jet... Seto's fondness for technology was well-known and well-documented.

Looking around, he wondered where the Professor might have hidden them. He knew the Professor couldn't leave it in plain sight, nor could he afford to have the parents question the school's motives. Seto also knew Professor Xavier hadn't vouched this little bit of information to his own parents—nor did he ever intend to. Which was just as well. Seto wasn't going to say anything to jeopardise his chances of seeing Cerebral or of flying the jet. He was sure he could convince the Professor of the latter, one way or the other.

"It's nice here, isn't it?"

Seto whirled around and stared at the youth sitting on a stone bench nonchalantly, which had been unoccupied before.

"Cat got your tongue?" Crimson eyes twinkled mischievously. "Or are you just not very bright?"

"How'd you get here?" Seto said suspiciously, ignoring the previous blather. Seto hadn't seen him when he had first entered the appealing garden; he was certain he would have noticed a stranger, especially if that stranger wore black and had dyed his hair yellow and purple.

"There's this thing called walking—I'm sure you're familiar with it." The stranger smiled. "I guess that answers that question—you're just not very bright."

Seto gritted his teeth and counted slowly to ten. In French. "I meant just _now_. I would have seen if you were here before."

"I was here before. You just didn't see me." With that, the stranger leaned back and sighed, looking as if he were alone, enjoying the sun for all intents and purposes.

Seto stared at him incredulously. "I would have _seen_ you!"

He shrugged. "No, you wouldn't. It's a little trick I learned from the Professor."

Seto narrowed his eyes. "You're another student," he stated. With his own set of 'gifts', Seto added silently. At least he'd found an answer to his question, no help from Red Eyes there.

"Why, yes, Blue Eyes. It took you long enough to figure that out."

Gritting his teeth again, Seto glared down at the stranger. He had a feeling he knew what the stranger's 'gift' was, and he didn't like it.

"You wouldn't, of course."

Seto glared. "Stop reading my mind!"

"I'm not—you're projecting really loudly." The stranger shrugged again. "Just turn the volume down and I'll quit freaking you out."

"I'm not freaking out," Seto said from his clenched jaw, but he did make an effort to mentally calm himself.

"Much better, Blue Eyes." He nodded approvingly. "I'm Yami, by the way. But I'm Yugi the other half of the time."

At Seto's confused look, Yami grinned. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll figure it out later."

* * *

_10. Looking for trouble_

Seto cut right through the queue, ignoring startled protests, and flashed the ring on his right finger—a black stone engraved with the symbol of his House. The bouncer's dark eyes gleamed, and then he grunted, waving Seto through. Seto walked in, his mind automatically strengthening his mental shields. It was considered in bad taste to use telepathy on those within the Club and generally, only the young and arrogant have ever attempted to do so—those who never learned also never lasted long here—but Seto had never liked the thought of being so _open_ among the Witches and Vampires, his fellow predators. Plainly put, he thought it was stupid to trust the others, his own species included. He had no doubt there were some rogue Shapeshifters lying in wait, spying for each side of the triad; the only uncertainty was figuring out who was on whose side.

At the moment, Seto had no sides. His only motive for coming here was to see the mythical Old One with his own eyes. Rumours might be good enough for the awe-stricken ones, those who never gave another thought before they bowed to the Royal Line, but Seto needed something more—he needed to see before he could believe. It was a trait that had caused him much trouble when he was younger and more prone to follow his curiosity, but it had also sharpened his mind. He didn't bother changing that part of himself; the curiosity, he tempered, the rest didn't need to be fixed. It had served him well.

He ignored the curious stares, the appraisals, and the contempt as he walked towards a bar stool. The curious ones were most likely Witches; they had an innate fascination with Shapeshifters—probably because they were the only kind not branched from the Ancestor—and would endlessly try to question any Shapeshifter in the vicinity.

The appraisals were from his own kind, he knew; his rare Shape drew unwanted attention wherever he went—if it wasn't questions regarding his Dragon form, then it was questions regarding his family. And Seto never spoke about his family.

The contempt was undoubtedly from the Vampires. They held themselves as the superior of all races and looked upon the Shapeshifters as commoners. Even if those _commoners_ had done a much better job of surviving the Blood Age.

He nodded at the bartender, whose spiked up green hair and mild blue eyes hid his feral Wolf form from non-Shapeshifters, and settled on a bar stool.

"You're here," Alexei said in mock surprise.

"Yes, I'm here," Seto said, annoyed. He gestured dismissively.

"And you're being charming, as usual." Alexei grinned.

Seto snorted as he eyed his surroundings, taking in several faces before he turned back to the bartender-slash-old nuisance. "I'll give you charming."

"Sounds like fun." Alexei's grin widened. "But I don't think that's what you came here for."

Seto's back immediately straightened and his eyes narrowed. "So it's true then."

"Yeah, it's true. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't thought so yourself," Alexei pointed out. "And the rumours wouldn't have gone on for as long as they have."

"How many?" Seto asked bluntly, fingers tapping on the bench table.

"Only one so far." Alexei gave him an incredulous look. "You didn't think they'd all show themselves—"

"No," Seto cut off. "Of course not. But I'd like to know how many still exist... and why they decided to appear now. They could have turned up centuries ago when Vampires were feuding and we splintered off into different sides—why _now_? We haven't had trouble in decades."

Alexei nodded and sighed, shaking his head a little. "All these questions and no answers— and let me guess, you're just going to go up and start interrogating him."

Seto frowned. "I get answers, don't I?"

"Yeah, but it's not very subtle." Alexei was about to say more when his eyes turned towards the entrance; he grinned. "In any case, go to it—our guest of honour has arrived."

Turning around, Seto stared at the Old One—or who he assumed was the Old One. His appearance gave no hint of his age—not that Seto had expected it to—but the spiked yellow-purple hair and crimson eyes were a far cry from what he had thought an Old One would look like.

"He calls himself Yami," Alexei said from behind him.

Seto didn't say anything. He didn't have to, because Yami was heading straight towards him.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**: _Same as previous. Don't own _YuGiOh_ and never will.  
**  
Author's Note**: The next set of ficlets/drabbles... Only ten more to go. -flails-

And because I forgot to mention this before: _9. Knockin' on your door_ is an X-Men crossover and _10. Looking for trouble _was inspired by the setting and universe of the a young adult series titled Night World by L.J. Smith. I kind of just assumed everyone knew. -sheepish-

Many thanks to **Moerae** for beta-ing, and thank you to everyone for the lovely feedback!  
_  
Completed: 12 January 2007_

* * *

_  
11. Lovers and Players  
_

He wanted a fight. He wanted to bleed, to make someone bleed; to taste the fury and pain of mindless violence.

He wanted…_him_. 

Ruby-red eyes, careless and confident. Grace and arrogance, and a smirk for every victory, every show of invincibility.

Seto had never lost before, had never tasted defeat quite like this. It made him rage, made his blood boil and his fist clenched. Made him sit up and take notice; made him _want_.

Seto watched him walk away, before he stood to follow. Others might have missed it, but Seto had seen the beckon, the carefully hidden smile.

* * *

_  
12. Mirror, mirror on the wall  
_

Once upon a time, a time long, long ago, he had been human.  
_  
Human_.  
_  
Alive_.  
_  
Mortal_. 

He had lived and breathed and grew, blood and flesh and _warmth_—_so warm—_with the sound of his little brother's laughter ringing like silver bells near his side. They had been happy. Seto was sure of it—even if his memories dulled and the years (_hundreds, thousands)_ went soundlessly by, he was sure they had been happy.

He couldn't bear the alternative.

——

Once upon a time, a time long, long ago, Seto had struggled for his life against a foe he now knew could never be beaten. The demon with the crimson-red eyes and the sharp teeth had ensnared him, had _wanted _him, and Seto, despite his strength and will, found himself ensnared. He had never expected to lose then—yet, lose he did. He rose from his dead body—fighting all the while to remain—as the void called to him like a siren, its deadly, beautiful song sweeping away his will and mind until all that was left was a spectre of want.

Then, the demon had pulled him away and tied him to himself, leaving Seto bounded and caged and forever entwined with his killer.

He had watched his little brother grieve, had watched him grow, fall in love, marry, and then, he had watched his nieces and nephews and their children…until one day, he saw his little brother leave—his body had remained still and peaceful on his bed, but his spirit…his spirit…

And Seto was alone, except for the demon who would never leave. Bounded and entwined…for years upon years…until Seto couldn't remember a moment when he and his demon weren't together.

He would have been angry long ago. He would have raged and cursed and struggled for freedom.

But the years (_hundreds, thousands_) made a difference and when loneliness bit into him like a never-ending chill—sometimes it was better to have company than not. Anger lessened over time, hatred could be buried with enough earth, but loneliness and need could never fade.

Sometimes, it was better to not be alone.

* * *

_  
13_. _I'm human  
_

There was always risk involved, of course. Without risk, without danger, living would be boringly bland; each life time would be filled with the same predictable routine—something Seto disliked intensely. He liked his freedom too much to stifle himself with the confines of society, especially with such a repressed, fearful society. To view differences as a disease, to tolerate only the norm, to confine themselves into what was expected—Seto could never abide for such restrictions, and nor was he going to now.

The air was heavy and dense, filled with perfumes and sweat and the stink of decay that couldn't be concealed. Mixed in with that stink was the smell of fear and exhilaration, happiness and grief, nervousness and confidence—all extravagant signs of the bustle of a large city, growing larger every day as more people settled in.

Seto's nose twitched, and he grimaced. He hated the smell of humans. He hated it even more in cities, where they converged into one convenient location, merging their scents into one large heavy fog that clogged his senses.

And Terrah had to ask why he hated going into cities, Seto snorted. Who didn't? Bad enough the place stank—did Seto really have to mill around, pretending to be one of _them_ when all he wanted to do was snarl and growl and maybe, just maybe, literally bite some fool's head off?

Not that he could do so without some kind of excuse—Marreth would never stand for it, him and his bloody soft heart—but still. Seto was tempted. Very tempted.

He glared at a merchant who had been edging towards him, face full of insincerity, and tried to sniff for the elusive scent again. At once, he grimaced at the foul mingled smells. It was no use—Seto couldn't track down the other wolf like this, not when he was bombarded with humans at every turn. Marreth could take his damn plan and eat it with his raw meat—Seto wasn't going to wait patiently among the loud noises and foul stench, impatiently searching for someone who _may_ be one of their own.

No. He wasn't. He was going to leave right _now_. Forget wandering around in this noisy crowd, hoping to track the ever elusive one—he'd just bide his time in the forest. If this was one of theirs, then it was only a matter of time before Seto found him. Seto took one last look around, grimaced, and then quickly walked away, towards the appealing sight of the dark forest. Seto could almost smell the refreshing scent of pine, wood, and dew; he could almost feel the cool wind skirting through the trees and sliding along his skin like silk.

Abruptly, Seto stopped, nostrils flaring as a new scent suddenly made its presence known. _Known_. Familiar, but not—someone he didn't know, but who had the familiar scent of _one of theirs_. 

Stiffening, Seto stood straighter and began scanning the people around him. This one's scent was strong. _Close_. He couldn't be that far away — and Seto would lay bets that he wouldn't be trying to hide. No, Seto thought bemusedly, as the smell of curiosity became clear.  
_  
Closer_. Seto tilted his head when the scent became stronger, and the sudden realisation that this one _was coming to him_ and _had been aware of him _all along made his eyes widen in surprise.  
_  
Well, well, well. Either he's very brave or a reckless fool. _

Even as Seto's disparaging thoughts lingered, he couldn't help feeling impressed. It wasn't often someone took him by surprise; it was doubly rare for anyone to track him for this long without alerting Seto, but this one _had_. In a large crowd of loud and bewilderingly strong scents and noises, true, but Seto wasn't going to make excuses for his own lack of awareness.

His sight fell onto the only person—a youth, male, around the same age as himself, with curious crimson eyes—who was standing still amidst the jostling movements of the crowd. Seto stared back, fascinated and annoyed when the youth tilted his head and smirked.

* * *

_  
14. Everyone wants you_

He was there again.   
_  
Of course he was there_, Seto thought wryly, _because that's why you're here, isn't it?_ Genius by day, stalker by night—and Seto didn't really have an excuse for it. There was no linear relationship between genius and madness, but there probably was a correlation between genius and obsession.

Obsession explained a whole lot. It explained why he came here—three nights a week, sometimes four. It explained why those three nights a week (sometimes four) were based on the clubbing patterns of a certain someone (blonde, possibly, with dyed red-purple streaks; crimson eyes; and a lot of leather). It explained why Seto could never take his eyes off him, as he danced, drank, seduced. It explained why Seto didn't even try.

But what it didn't explain was why, on this certain night, Seto found himself face-to-face with his current object of obsession.

"Yami," he'd introduced himself, looking all too amused when Seto stared.

* * *

__

15. Earthy Paradise  


Yami woke up gasping and cold, his skin pebbled with goosebumps. Darkness shrouded his vision as the wind whistled through leaves and branches that swayed in rhythm. Moonlight streamed through the trees in patches, weak and pale and not nearly enough to give Yami a good idea of his surroundings, of where and when and why—especially the why, because Yami couldn't remember anything, anything other than his first name, he amended—but at least he had some source of light, no matter how dim. He didn't want to think about how it would have felt, to wake up alone and cold and blind.

Shivering, he started to sit up, but his arms wouldn't hold his weight; he felt weak, like he had never moved a single muscle in his entire life. Breathing took more effort than he had expected, and Yami scowled, frustrated and cold and bewildered. Carefully, he sat up, straining muscles and gripping the soft ground determinedly. He shook his head once, twice, and blinked at his surroundings, hoping for some familiarity, for some hint, some inkling—no matter how small—but his mind came up blank. He knew his name—that was obvious. Anything else, however, and he came to a standstill. No memories, nothing.

And he was naked. No wonder he was so drenched in the cold.

Sighing, Yami stood up slowly and carefully, testing his leg muscles now that he was aware of the consequences of moving without a care. His body, like his mind, seemed blank too; as if he had been reborn with a blank sheet, memory gone, body unused, untested. Subconsciously, he shivered again. _Oh, _he thought. That hadn't felt good, that combination of uneasiness and nausea—hadn't felt good at all, and yet, yet Yami could feel it was somehow...right.  
_  
What the hell happened?_ he wondered, feeling too much like a lost soul—or maybe, like a lost guinea pig.

His stomach tightened again, but before he could contemplate any further, there was a loud rustle and a loud _snap_ of breaking branches. Yami tensed, fear and adrenaline combining and turning into a heavy weight inside him; he clenched his fist, but thinned his lips when evidence of his still slack and weakened muscles became even more apparent. Still, he wasn't about to give up—if there was a threat, then he was going to eliminate it.

Yami thought he was prepared for anything; had believed it so utterly, that when a pale figure, naked as his own appeared, he started.

"Wh—" he stumbled over his first word clumsily.

"Yeu—" the stranger stumbled over his too, and for a moment, Yami was glad he wasn't alone in this.

"I...mean..." the stranger started again, awkwardly. His blue eyes looked annoyed, and he seemed even more frustrated than Yami had been. "I...you were here too?" 

Yami nodded and asked as his mouth moved awkwardly, trying to get use to the twist of each word, "Do you rebr—_remember_?"

He shook his head and frowned. "You?"

Yami shook his head and sighed. "No."  
_  
Well, at least we're getting used to talking_, Yami thought as they stared at each other uncomfortably, aware of their nakedness and the chill of the night. Yami wondered how they were going to get back to—well, to where ever they were from and whether they were going to regain their memories and where they were going to go for the time being, when abruptly, the stranger said, "Seto."

When Yami blinked, the stranger glared at him with a look that said, _just how dumb are you?_ and then pointed at himself. "Seto."  
_  
Oh_, Yami thought before he scowled and glared with a look that said, _I was just startled, you arrogant ass_ before he said, "Yami." And then, for good measure, mockingly pointed at himself.

The glare he got back was almost worth the shaky movement of his hand. 


End file.
